"There's Dashalong, sir," bellowed Mike, "but he stood last night."
"How about you?" inquired Leonard.
"All roight." The Celt was about to turn for the high bridge at the stern, when Madden stopped him.
"When was your last watch, Mike?"
"This afternoon, sor."
"When did Greer stand watch?"
"He's niver told anywan, sor; I think it must be a saycret."
"Get to your cabin and turn in," directed Madden. "I'll take it myself till midnight, eight bells. Then send Greer."
Hogan saluted in the darkness and turned about for his cabin. Madden began a careful journey aft toward the wheel.
He fought his way to the ladder and climbed up into the night, sometimes clinging like a fly to the underside of the reeling wall, sometimes going up a steep slant. Gusts of spume and foam whipped him all the way up. Once on top of the wall, he clung to the inside rail and began pulling himself carefully around toward the rear bridge. At this height the full force of the wind almost tore him from his reeling anchorage. At last he turned onto the bridge and moved toward the binnacle light.